


Golden

by boleynqueens



Category: Historical RPF, The Tudors (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Marriage Proposal, Pregnancy, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7692130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That is," Jenna whispers, leaning towards him, "somehow, simultaneously the sweetest and most terrifying thing I have ever seen."</p><p>"Yeah," George says, with a shrug, "but then…that's pretty much them in a nutshell, isn't it?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (late) birthday to lucreziaborgia on Tumblr! Hope you like~ ♥ ♥
> 
> "Love is not love, which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove…it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken" -- Shakespeare
> 
> "Je t'aime plus qu'hier et moins que demain." = I love you more than I did yesterday and less than I will tomorrow.
> 
> There will be more characters in part 2 and I'll be tagging them.
> 
> Don't read past part iii. if you're uncomfortable with smut.

**i.**

**December 2002**

"Wasn't there something you wanted to tell me--"

" _Yes_ ," Anne snaps, wringing her hands, pacing along the empty hallway (or, _empty for now_ … _it's not really the best place for this_ , but the restrooms on this floor are out of order, and Henry's campaign office in the place he rents downstairs is the floor that gets the most traffic anyways, so it's as private as she figures it gets, here), "I'm _trying_ to…I don't know how to start."

She stops at the window on the end of the hallway, floor to ceiling, right next to the staircase. The day is pale gold and bright, the leaves of the trees outside iridescent underneath the sunlight. The glass is cold against the palm of her hand as she presses it against the window in an attempt to ground herself.

" _Well_ ," Henry quips, ghosting a hand over the curve of her waist (she sighs and he leaves it there, firm, brushing his thumb against her ribcage, catching on the netting of her sweater), "you could start by…starting."

"I'm scared to," she says, voice hoarse, and somehow meeting his gaze in the reflection doesn't feel any less intimidating than it would in the three-dimensional. She expects him to be at least _mildly_ alarmed at her admission, but all she can detect in the grey blue of his eyes (warm as stones left on the sand, as changeable and tempestuous as any waves that may curl to the same shore) is mild surprise, at most.

Anne watches, brow crinkled, as he kisses the top of her head.

She steps away from his hold on her, facing away from the window. Settles against the doorway-like apparatus around it, the thin strip of wall like a frame around the window, her back straight against it. Henry mirrors her, his back against the opposite side of the 'frame', hands in the pockets of his slacks.

"I'm pregnant."

His head dips forward, chin lowered, slightly. Lashes downcast and gaze fixed on her stomach, he takes a shallow breath before lifting his eyes to hers.

When he starts to walk towards her Anne closes her eyes, pulls her clasped together hands apart and places them against her sides.

When she feels his hand slide over her stomach in a gentle caress she opens her eyes, only to find him with his lowered, mouth parted slightly.

Henry holds himself still as he stares at her, eyes shining with unshed tears. His expression is that of a man that’s stumbled upon a holy relic.

"Are you… _really_?" he asks, voice wavering.

Anne nods, sniffling.

" _Oh_ ," Henry says, cradling her face in his hands, "why were you scared to tell me?"

"I wasn't sure," she stammers, "I didn't know you'd react, I didn't think it was something you'd want--"

"Sweetheart…I thought you knew, by now: when it comes to you, I want _everything_."

She arches her neck upwards to kiss him (the reach not too far, thanks to the heels of the supple leather boots that hug her calves), tastes the salt from her own tears as she does, they slide into her mouth when the kiss turns open and passionate. The tips of their noses brush together.

He pulls away to rest his forehead against hers, and says, in a manner that strikes her as disingenuously blasé, given his words:

"We should get married."

"I don't want that to be why we get--"

"Oh, it's not," he says, abruptly.

Henry parts from her and she watches as he fumbles with his blazer until his hand stills. He pulls out a velvet box from an inside pocket and maneuvers it onto his open palm.

"What the _hell_? How long have you had that?" she asks, voice cracking, hand clasped over her mouth.

"A while," he says, with a shrug, "I was waiting for the right moment. This seems like a good one."

He kneels on the floor, then, on bended knee, starts to pat around and in his blazer yet again.

"I had a speech…it's not here, though," he says, flustered, "shit, this was supposed to be more romantic, um…let's see…there was," he says, squinting, massaging his temple with the hand not holding the box, "'Love is not love, which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove…it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken'…um…"

Henry turns the box and flips it open with a shaking hand, revealing [a ring, platinum gold and inlaid with a large sapphire cut in the shape of a rose](https://www.etsy.com/listing/223722056/tudor-rose-2ct-round-brilliant-cut-aaa?ga_order=price_desc&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=tudors&ref=sr_gallery_8).

"What is _that_?" she gasps, tears flowing down her face ( _fucking hormones_ ), clasping a hand over her mouth.

"Ah…well," he says, bringing the open box closer to his face and squinting at it, "I _believe_ this is what the poets call…a 'ring'."

" _Henry_!"

"Sorry…anyways. _Je t'aime plus qu'hier et moins que demain_ , and, so…I would like to love you more with every tomorrow, as my wife. Would you like that, too?"

She nods, hand still clasped over her mouth. Henry beams as he slips the ring onto the third finger of her left hand.

Sunlight catches the gem, then the two of them, locked in an embrace filled with kisses and tears.

_They are golden._

* * *

**ii.**

**January 2003**

George has been sitting on the floor with Jenna, detangling this _clusterfuck_ of fairy lights for what feels like ten years when he hears sniffling.

He lifts his head to see his younger sister standing in the doorway, a white cardboard box in her hand, looking shell-shocked. Her lower lip trembles.

_Oh, shit. Not this again._

Henry, who seems to have _some weird spidey-sense for this sort of thing_ , gets up from his chair so fast it almost topples over. Judging by the peeved look on his paternal grandmother's face (although _'peeved' seems to be the natural resting expression_ of the undeniably influential Margaret Beaufort, _so maybe it's nothing_ ) he's left a conversation mid-sentence to do so.

His sister's fiancé and Margaret have been doing seating arrangements for the past hour or so (George had no idea it was such an intricate matter). An array of folded index cards have been moved around by both as they murmured together with an intensity that seemed more fitting for battle preparations that nuptial ones, _but, whatever_.

George would probably have less inner snark about the matter if he didn't envy their relatively light labor in comparison to the _Detangling Process_.

"Sweetheart? What's wrong?" Henry asks, taking the box from her hands and setting it aside on a table.

"I…I…they sent the…they sent the wrong ones!" Anne cries out. Sobbing in earnest, now, she swipes at her tears with a closed fist.

Jenna takes a sip from her iced coffee and rolls her eyes as Henry coos in sympathy. George mouths 'pregnancy hormones', even though his exasperation matches his wife's.

"It doesn't match the color scheme, it's _white and gold_ , the earth tones are for the _outdoor_ receptions, not the _indoor_ ," Anne whimpers, breathy gasps in between her words.

"Shhh," Henry says, leading her to the couch in front of the fireplace, well within earshot and view of George and Jenna's spot on the floor, "don't worry, I'll fix it."

He takes his cell phone out of his jacket pocket once he takes a seat. Anne sits on his lap and Henry presses a kiss to her tear-stained cheek before pressing his phone to his ear.

"Yes," he says, twirling a lock of Anne's hair around his finger, "my fiancée ordered _white_ chocolate covered strawberries. We were sent milk chocolate…no, it's _not_ okay, they're supposed to be embellished with gold swirls by our artist friend, thus the need for a _blank canvas_ … Holbein, yes of course you've heard of him, but he wanted that to be his wedding gift and _now_ … …well, I suppose my _question is_ : what the _fuck_ is _wrong with you_?"

"Thank you," Anne murmurs, eyes shut.

"Mm-hm," Henry replies, kissing her forehead before returning to his phone call, still playing with her hair.

"That is," Jenna whispers, leaning towards him, "somehow, simultaneously the sweetest and most terrifying thing I have ever seen."

"Yeah," George says, with a shrug, "but then…that's pretty much them in a nutshell, isn't it?"

* * *

**iii.**

**April 2003**

"Is that your first cup of coffee today?" Henry asks, pausing his foot rub as he views his wife cradling her hands around a large cup (a wedding gift, from Mary Boleyn; it has a picture of she and Anne holding hands at Disneyland printed on it).

"Yes," Anne says, taking a sip.

"Are you lying to me?"

" _No_!"

Henry crosses his arms and stares at her.

" _Yes_ ," she admits, groaning as he pries the handle of it from her hand.

He walks away with it, pouring it down the adjacent bathroom's sink.

"What's so _bad_ about drinking coffee, anyway," she says, pouting, "I'm sure the forums exaggerate."

"I'm sure the doctors don't. One cup a day," he scolds, taking a seat next to her on the bed, "you _promised_."  

"Maybe it just means they'll be _very_ energetic," Anne says, smiling, holding a hand over her rounded stomach, "like their father."

He melts at that, puts a hand over hers on her stomach.

"Like their father is," she says, untying the belt of her silk robe before leaning towards him and whispering in his ear, "in _many_ things."

Henry watches, mesmerized, as she takes his hand and guides it the top of her robe. With her guidance he slips it off her shoulders, baring them and a short maternity nightgown, embroidered with acorns and honeysuckles.

 _The whole maternity glow thing is definitely not bullshit_ , he thinks, drinking in every inch of her as he takes his own bathrobe off. Her skin exudes a soft radiance, smooth and golden against the crisp white of her gown. Her hair, dark brown, long and lustrous, spills past breasts a cup size beyond her usual.

He imagines unveiling the new fullness of each, one at a time, the heaviness of them in his hands. A familiar pressure rubs under the satin of his boxers at the thought.

She's complained of their tenderness in the past few months, and as such has stopped wearing bras entirely: _a welcome blessing_ , _that_ , although he wishes her pain was less. And that the ensuing stretch marks from the weight gain didn't cause her shyness, although she seems to have little of it at the present moment.    

"Do they hurt?" he asks, trailing an index along the swell of them, goosebumps rising on her skin along the way.

"A little," she says, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, "my headache hurts worse, though. Caffeine withdrawal's a bitch."

"I'll be careful with them, then…maybe I can take your mind off of it?" Henry suggests, playing with the hem of the nightgown.

" _Maybe_ ," Anne says, coyly, easing the skirt from his grasp, "prolong it a bit, first? You don't do that anymore."

"I do plenty of foreplay," he scoffs, brow furrowed, "what do you _mean_?"

"You _do_ , it's just too… _nice_."

"I'm considerate! You want me to be _mean_?"

" _Less_ considerate, maybe."

"I just want you to be comfortable."

"I'll tell you if I'm not," she counters, "you know I do."

And with that, she scoots over from her resting spot against the headboard to the long side of the bed, swinging her legs over the edge of it. Places her hands flat against the mattress, behind her, leaning backwards slightly rather than sitting straight up.

"I'll _try_ ," Henry says, grabbing a pillow and leaving the bed for the floor.

"You better do more than _try_ ," she remarks, gaze sharp and watchful on him as he rolls his neck to a crackling sound.

Henry places the pillow on the spot on the floor in front of her feet, cheeks warming from the words. He knows what she's doing, of course: trying to egg him on, spur him towards _less considerate_ with flippancy, but that doesn't mean it's not working.

He's never been one to back down from a challenge, after all.

"Close these, please," Henry says, nudging one of her kneecaps towards the other, and she does so with a smirk.

He pulls the edge of her nightgown _farther_ down her legs as she squirms, smoothing the hemline over the center of her thighs.

Henry curls his hand around her thigh, runs it against her skin with the lightest touch he can manage, stopping where the nightgown ends.

She hums, head tilted back and eyes closed, as he repeats the gesture on the left. He slides his hand in between the gap between her thighs and traces whorls there, like a paintbrush making strokes.

 _Gentle_ strokes.

 _Agonizingly_ gentle strokes, if her trembling is any indication.

"There's something I want to do…I guess it'll have to wait. Can you guess what?"

Anne shakes her head, lips parted.

"I would _love_ ," he says, rubbing the hem of her nightgown in between his forefinger and thumb, "to strip you of this."

Henry switches his position, moves the pillow under his knees to the right side of her legs rather than directly in front of her body.

"Pull you, topless, onto my lap…"

Holds her knees with one arm as he pulls the bottom of her nightgown out from under her, revealing silk underwear that match the nightgown.

"…feel you writhe on top of me as I caress and kiss every inch of bare skin," he continues, tracing a circle on her lower back, "but you want me to wait? Before I do…any of that?"

" _Henry_ ," Anne whines, the tips of her ears turning pink, "yes, but touch me, _please_ …"

" _Oh_ ," he drawls, giving a quick swipe to the damp circle on the front of the silk, withdrawing his hand just as quickly, "you're wet."

"Yeah, no shit," she grumbles, eyes wide as he slides his fingers into his mouth.

"Rude," Henry says, slipping slick fingers under the front of her underwear.

She whimpers, thrusting her hips forward into the touch, tilting her head back. He fakes a yawn as he strokes the pad of his index underneath her clit. Anne glares at him and he beams, her face flushed, her hair sticking to the sweat of her neck in messy strands.

He slides them back out, grinning at her indignant gasp. It's praise in its highest form, really, to his ears, and so he decides to reward her for it. He releases his hold on her knees and tells her to keep them closed, or as close to it as she can get. She nods her assent.

His gaze locks onto hers, the black of her dilated pupils melting in almost seamlessly with her sloe gaze as he yanks the front of her underwear forward with three fingers of his left hand. Henry presses his right against the bed as he slants his mouth over her entrance and teases her with four swipes of his tongue from the side.

Anne hisses through her teeth when the underwear snaps back against her center.

"Any second thoughts about being considerate?" he asks, maneuvering back to his earlier position and bending on one knee (it seems vaguely sacrilegious to do so, given that he asked her to marry him mere months ago in the same position, but then delaying his wife's orgasm to this extent seems sacrilegious, too) braced against the side of her leg, his hand tight on the edge of the bed.

" _No_ ," she says, hotly, wriggling her shoulders as he eases her knees open with one of his.

"You sure?" he asks, mildly, smirking as she grinds her covered sex against his bare knee.

"Maybe not."

Henry moves to the bed. Anne moves her legs back from over the edge. He kneels on the mattress and pulls her up to meet him, chest to chest, hands in hers.

"I like your nightgown," he says, sweetly, worrying a bit of the silk in his hand, "it's pretty."

"Thank you."

"I think I'd like it better off, though."

She nods, blushing as he helps ease it over and off of her.

"Come here," Henry says, sitting cross legged, resting his back against the pillows on the headboard.

Anne straddles him and he makes good on his earlier promise, nuzzling her neck and dipping his head to ghost soft kisses over her breasts, the hollow of her throat…

"You're _so_ beautiful," he whispers, forehead resting against hers.

"Besides these," she says, running her thumb over the line of a stretch mark.

" _Including_ these," he insists, tracing the same spot, "very much so. I promise."

"You ' _promise'_?" she teases, settling onto her knees, giggling as he rolls her underwear down her thighs.

"I wouldn't lie to you, would I?"

"I suppose…"

"Men stare at you everywhere we go, you know," he grouses, easing her onto her back before flipping over to his side, resting on his elbow, "I _hate_ it."

"If they're staring," Anne says, laughing as he moves back to the floor, growling as he pulls her underwear off completely, "it's only because they're trying to figure out if they should congratulate me or if I'm just fat…"

" _No_ …they're staring because they're thinking you're the most beautiful thing they've ever seen. And they would be right," he says, kissing her ankle, "too bad for them, though…you're _mine_."

And with that declaration he settles her legs over his shoulders.

He kisses her sex like it's the gateway between him and heaven; with reverence and passion and steady focus. Hums against her as he hears her moan in relief.

Henry laps delicate vertical strokes and she pushes against them, begs for more. He delivers, then decreases pressure again. Gratitude for the size of his nose (usually a matter of self-consciousness, given that it's larger than conventional rules of attractiveness dictate) drifts towards him as he nuzzles the bridge of it against her clit during a swirl of his tongue against her center, and, judging by her breathy reaction, it drifts towards her, too.

He presses his mouth against her sex until even the creases of her inner thighs are damp. Coaxes her through the ascents and descents of several orgasms until she claims fatigue.

They lie together afterwards, facing each other on their sides. Anne falls asleep almost instantly, but not before whispering a thank you and a claim that she can't even _remember_ what a headache feels like.

Before her, he never knew that sex could feel like something holy. Something that intertwined intimacy with awe, desire with purity, so seamlessly.

But then _, love does that_ , he supposes.

 _Your hands_ may grab a clean sheet and drape it over the mother of your future child as she sleeps, but love is what pushes them to do so.

 _Your mouth_ may be what presses against your wife's forehead in adoration before turning off the lamp, but love is what leaves it there.

Love is....'an ever-fixed mark _'._

**Author's Note:**

> Elizabeth will be in part 2, and the story shall continue~
> 
> moodboard for this story here: http://boleynqueens.tumblr.com/post/148558466552/henry-turns-the-box-and-flips-it-open-with-a


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